In a Dream
by Summer Reign
Summary: The nightmares of the past are always present. Halloween challenge fic.


Title: In a Dream  
Author: Summer Reign  
Rating: T  
Disclaimer: CSI is not mine. If it were, you would have the Grissom and Sara Sunshine hour. But, alas, that's not meant to be.

Summary: The nightmares of the past are always present.

Written for CSI Forever Online's Halloween challenge. Inspired by picture #17. (You don't need to know any of this to read the story).

_1. _

_Nightmares are releases.—Sylvia Browne_

There was no identifiable trigger. Not a hard night at work, hormones, or an overly generous breakfast. It just seemed to happen. For no rhyme or reason.

Sara would suddenly find herself there—just through the front gates of a cemetery. At dawn. Well, what was probably dawn. It was hard to tell. Darkness swirled around her but there was always one ray of sunlight poking through the black clouds to illuminate her way. Like some giant mystical flashlight. She was dressed in odd clothing. It was always the same. The same dark dress that nearly touched her ankles. Her mother used to have a dress like that. What was called a 'granny dress' in the 1970s. Laura Sidle once told her that when Sara was a child, she would crawl over and grab onto the hem to pull herself up to a standing position. She had no memory of that. She only remembered the dress hanging in the closet…for years.

And, now, apparently, she had one for her very own. Sara could see herself walking …her feet covered in short, laced-up boots that matched, somehow, the style of that ugly dress. Crushing dried grass and leaves with each step she took. The night was always cold. Summer-long gone, but not quite winter yet. A cold breeze that chilled her to the bone. And, yet, she did not seek warmth. She was on a mission. A dreaded one. And still she kept moving forward.

Past headstones, long neglected by the living.

Born 1876-Died 1905

Born 1898-Died 1979

Born 1921-Died 1921

A child. Sad.

So sad.

Sadder still that they all seemed to be forgotten. Not even an attempt at weed removal or a fresh flower put on a grave.

Life goes on.

The dead do not.

There. Just ahead. She could see it as she did many times before. An open grave. She needed to go and look. Her steps became quicker; her breathing accelerated. She could hear the pounding of her heart resound in her ears. One more step and she'd be there. She could look down and see him…

And, she woke—jerking to a sitting position, panting as if she had run a marathon.

Nothing to worry about. Nothing new.

She took a few deep breaths.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

Sara got up, went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Then, returned to the living room and did what she always did. She turned on her police scanner. The nightmare of the mind was replaced by the troubles of real life.

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2.

_Your nightmares follow you like a shadow, forever. – Aleksander Hemon_

It had been awhile. Long enough for her to almost imagine they were over.

She was wrong.

Again, no trigger she could identify. Lately, going to bed had been a rather pleasant experience.

And, yet, here she was…in the cemetery, in her granny dress and boots. Walking.

Crunchy grass, frigid air…and still she continued.

Born 1910-Died 2004

Born 1873—Died 1907

Born 1987—Died 1995

Another sad one.

Well, all were sad, when you got right down to it.

When was there ever too much life? Too many moments to right wrongs? To take that one last chance? To make things better?

Where there was life, there was hope.

None of these people had that anymore.

They had…

Sara didn't know what they had, except her footprints as she trampled over the ground that surrounded their remains.

There…there in the distance…there it was again.

She walked faster. Breath accelerating. Heart beat pounding harder.

And still she moved forward.

"You'll be waking up any second now, Sara," she heard herself say.

But, she didn't. Suddenly, the open grave was right before her.

She knew who was in it. She always knew. But, she didn't want to see him that way. Once was enough.

Still, she looked down. Surely, she would snap right back into consciousness.

Her father lay in the ground. No casket. Sandy brown hair caked with dirt. The blue shirt he wore covered with copper colored stains. That smell…the metallic blood smell…she'd know it anywhere.

And, as they had been that day, his eyes were open. The lively brown eyes just staring at nothing. Not a sparkle of amusement or a flare of rage. Nothing.

A twig snapped behind her and she had just enough time to recognize her mother as she raised her bloody knife and plunged it right toward Sara's shoulder…

"Wake up! Honey, wake up!" She heard some horrible gurgling sound come from her own throat as she finally broke the surface of her dream into consciousness. Grissom's warm blue eyes were looking at her with a semi-horrified expression.

She was too busy breathing to offer him any comfort.

"Are you okay?" he asked. She nodded and sat up and he rubbed her back using small, circular motions. He used his other hand to push wayward strands of hair behind her ears.

Well, this was embarrassing.

She took another couple of breaths.

"I … had a bad dream."

"I figured as much," he said, still rubbing her back.

"I woke you up."

"It's okay."

"It's embarrassing."

"Why? Everyone dreams."

"Not like me," she sighed and put her hand to her hair. It was damp. Great. She had been sweating—probably profusely, too. A wet heap of an emotional mess.

"You want to talk about it?"

Talk, Sara. Talk.

He knows your situation. He's known for over a year now. He's here and cares about you and would understand. One look at the soft blue eyes, the kind smile and the hand that was probably cramping, still rubbing reassuring circles on her back, told her as much.

But, no, she did not want to talk.

She swung her legs off the side of the bed, "I'm going to listen to the police scanner," she said and then felt his hand grab hold of her upper arm.

"No. Stay. Go back to sleep."

"I can't. I'll only dream again."

"No, you won't. And, if you do, I'll be right here. The minute you start moving around funny—I'll wake you."

"I won't talk about it."

"You don't have to."

"And, I'll never fall asleep."

A mischievous expression came over his face.

"Yes, you will. If only in self-defense."

She gave him a wary look.

"I'm going to do what my father did when I had a nightmare," he said.

He had to be kidding. She was in her thirties, not three.

"I'm going to sing you a lullaby," he declared.

Lord, have mercy. She rolled her eyes and, yet, she had never heard him sing before. Well, outside of a lovely selection from the Mikado, that is. This might be one for the books…

She turned her pillow to the other side and then lay back. He adjusted the blanket neatly around the two of them and then lay back against his own pillow.

He seemed to be lost in thought.

"Grissom? My lullaby?" She prompted, amusement winning, slightly, over the terror she had felt moments before.

"I'm thinking of one. None seem to really apply."

"Well, no, because…" She stopped_. Because I'm not a child. And you aren't my parent._ And…that thought seemed to hit him about the same time because his cheeks suddenly got pink—which she knew was a sign that he "got" something just a moment too late and was supremely uncomfortable.

She took a deep breath and touched his face. "Because…most of those songs were for babies. And I'm not one of those little pink squiggly things. I just want to feel safe. Song or no song. And, you've done that." She leaned forward and gently kissed him goodnight. She wouldn't sleep, but there was no way she was going to make him feel bad over a really sweet intention.

Sara leaned back against the pillows again and closed her eyes. She heard Grissom clear his voice, take a breath and then launch into his version of a grown-up lullaby.

"Under the boardwalk…down by the sea-eeeee…on a blanket with my baby, is where I'll be…"

She tried not to giggle but…

Some things were impossible. And, after a few choruses, staying awake was impossible as well.

And the demons were kept at bay for the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

3.

_I have had dreams and I have had nightmares, but I have conquered my nightmares because of my dreams. – Jonas Salk_

Sara had the dream often now. But, she forced herself to at least try and sleep. No more scanner. Her scanner days were gone. She had almost reached a place where she welcomed the sight of her mother and father, and wondered what would happen- in real life if, one day, she didn't wake as Laura Sidle plunged that knife down. Would dreams and reality merge?

No. She didn't have a death wish. In spite of what Grissom had said.

He said a lot of things that day. It was foolish to even attempt to take that call in the office. But, she had. And, he calmly (and not so calmly) explained why he was letting her go.

Sara told them he didn't give her much of an explanation. Just ended it for "her own good."

That wasn't true. He gave her just enough. She just didn't happen to like it.

She didn't like it when he told her, years ago, that she shouldn't go chasing rabbits.

Or that she needed a diversion.

Or that she would burn out.

She didn't like it because it was true.

The facts were the facts. After they were married, she had temporarily come back to the lab to slay some old demons and regain her self-esteem. Grissom understood that and gave her his blessing. She stayed longer than expected, and he dealt with it because there was, as he put it, "still a good balance."

It's only when the balance shifted that he complained.

And it was only when he felt the balance no longer existed that he told her they couldn't go on the way they had been.

But, being a CSI was a life's calling. She just couldn't explain it. Why it was all right to walk away a few years ago, but so difficult to do now. He should know. It was his life's calling as well. But, then, it wasn't. And he left it behind. So far behind that he didn't want to come back to Vegas, only to be "sucked back in."

Both of them had been caught in the vortex. Both of them had tried to pull the other out, with gentle suggestions, cajoling, and ultimatums.

She knew that. She even knew he was probably right.

But, she … just owed it to everyone. Every nameless, helpless person that someone, somewhere, had failed.

Even if she had to prove him wrong. She wouldn't go crawling back to "the light," even if that's where he was waiting. Where he claimed he'd always be waiting. Since when did he become some healthy living guru, anyway? She would do her job and face her demons and … die someday, probably before her time. Alone. But, not a victim. Not anymore. A crusader. That's what she'd be.

And he would be sad. For not leaving CSI earlier, when she was burned out. For not coming back with her. For not fighting more for her to get out right from the beginning…when she still could distance her work from her life.

Yes, he'd be very sad.

Good for him.

No.

She never wanted him to be sad. Not for one minute. What they had was too special. He was too special. And he deserved happiness. He was a good man who loved her. And couldn't stand seeing her get hurt in any way.

And he was a good man who respected her right to choose the direction of her own life.

Of course, he was trying to influence which way she should go but…

Enough of that. She would never sleep if she debated that whole issue in her head, yet again.

She finished her chamomile tea and went to bed.

"Stay away, folks. I'm tired tonight," she said to her invisible parents, and turned on the CD with the ocean sounds and subliminal messages. Relax, breathe…relax, breathe.

And, there it was again. Before she even realized she was asleep.

Granny dress. Check.

Granny boots. Check.

Grass and twigs underfoot. Ditto

Born 1969—Died 1989

Born 1897—Died 1922

Born 1958- Died 1960

Sad. Yes, it was all so very, very sad.

And there was the grave.

"I'm coming, Dad," she said, heart pounding in tune with her steps.

It was so cold, so dark. Except for that one ray of light. She never really understood it. But, she appreciated the fact that it allowed her enough illumination that she didn't find herself falling and sprawled out on one of these eternal beds.

She made it to the grave and looked over the edge.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

That's NOT how this went.

Grissom.

She counted. 7 times. He had been stabbed 7 times. Hands, arms, torso. Dried blood everywhere.

Blue eyes fixed.

Sightless.

She backed up….right into someone. She turned. He was just a figure. A lone man in a hoodie. Just someone she could barely recognize. Is that how he looked when he was alive? She had no memory anymore.

"Dad…why did you do this?"

He said nothing. Just pointed at her hand. She looked down. Her hands were coated in blood and her fingers gripped a knife.

"No…I would never. I absolutely would never…I'm not my mother. I'm _not_ my mother…"

And then, she heard it. Laughter.

And her father was gone. Replaced by a wild-eyed Laura Sidle.

"You…" she said, as she struck Sara with the knife, "always loved him more. It didn't matter how mean he was to me. You loved your daddy. Always your daddy." And, with each blow, she seemed to get a gleeful satisfaction.

Sara could feel the cold, feel the life blood running out of her.

After the 7th strike, she felt her mother's manic strength as she was pushed into the open grave.

Right next to Grissom. The man she loved. The man she always loved.

She looked up and saw both her mother and father, shoveling dirt to cover their daughter and her husband.

And she felt him…Grissom…as he put his arms around her and held her close.

She looked at him. No…still no life. Just…one last, impossible, act of love.

She put her head against his bloody shirt and felt the dirt fall against her back. ..and the first ray of morning sun as it hit her open wounds.

It was a strangely comforting pain.

Sara woke up with a full-blown scream this time. She jumped out of bed and ran for the bathroom.

Intact, no stab marks. No anything.

Just a dream.

She picked up her phone. She would have—maybe should have—Skyped—but, she couldn't…just in case it wasn't a dream. Just in case she'd call and see him, back in that grave…

"Hello? Sara?" He said, as he answered the phone.

She could breathe again. He was alive. "Sara? Are you there?"

"Yes," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said and stopped—simply because she couldn't trust herself to speak.

"It's…2 PM. Middle of the night for you…nightmare?"

"Um, hmmm," and she could hear the sob in her own voice.

"It's just a dream, honey. It can't hurt you."

"I know," she said. But, it can hurt you…

She could hear him breathing. She wondered where he was now. They hadn't talked in well over two months.

For their own good.

She just wanted to hear his voice. He could talk about anything…anything. She just wanted to hear him speak. Know that he was alive and well and still open to…

"Take a deep breath, Sara," he said.

"No…I don't want to sleep."

"Then, don't. But, take a breath anyway."

She took a shaky breath.

And so did he.

Before launching into his old standby.

"Under the boardwalk…down by the sea…eeee…"

Only this time, she could hear Hank send out a yowl of disapproval at the assault his ears were subjected to.

She laughed through the tears. Yes, he was still open to a life together. She didn't even have to ask.

She closed her eyes. They were on a beach. Her head was against Grissom's chest as he was reading her some awfully important facts from a text book. Their dog was at their feet. The wind was warm and the sun was high. Nothing to crackle beneath her toes. No tombstones to read dates off of.

"On a blanket with my baby—that's where I'll be…"

She had serviced the dead long enough.

Time to choose life.

XXXXXX

The End

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A/N: Under the Boardwalk was a nifty old song by the Beach Boys (the Drifters did one, too…but, it's different). It just popped in my head when I was thinking about this story.

I was inspired, for some odd reason, by Bo Bice's American Idol performance of In a Dream. I don't know why—but, it was kind of haunting and creepy. Look it up on youtube and you'll see.

And, last but not least, Jorja Fox talked about Sara's character in an interview this week. And I think I got a little confirmation of why I think she's staying and what really could be up with the Grissom marriage. Since nothing is canon there because their own writers don't seem to know themselves…I put it forth as a possibility along with signs, symbols, subtext and all manner of frightening prose (but not too frightening because I'm a big chicken).


End file.
